Saturday morning, and March has been roaming the hills like a cold hearted lion, ensuring that the month departs in the traditional way with the traditional roar. Spring has either been frightened away, or has arrogantly turned aside until March has stopped his shenanigans...

On his early morning walk Caspar was ecstatic to discover fresh snow was there for the snuffling, and he had a continual little white moustache until we got back to the house.


The tender little cameos from yesterday all have a frosting of icy snow embellishing them. And high in the trees are the Crows, who may have a hand (a claw) in all of this. If this late snow fall is a western rendition of the Crow Snow on the prairies that is a mandatory precedent to Spring, then their presence in the orchards and tall trees the last few days has been a dark omen.

The snow on the roof of the Leaning Birdhouse had disappeared by noon. This afternoon brought another flurry, - but I think that The Lion Does Not Roar Tonight, so we will open our arms for sweet April's arrival.If Caspar has to do without his little gulps of fresh snow early in the morning, so be it.......

An appealing morning in the garden, before the clouds gathered and the wind grew chill. Spring continues to languish just outside our ken. Nevertheless, the May/June flowers are flourishing. The lovely new green of the delphiniums spreads against the fence, and that sweet June twosome, - the Iris and the Oriental Poppy are getting ready to delight us once again. The Forsythia is bursting its buttons, and I expect it to be gloriously golden in just a few days, along with all the daffodils that are skimming along on the verge.

And the perennial alyssum is beginning to bud up..... If I were to burrow down beneath the enormous Elephants Ears I'm sure I would find new stalks with little pink swellings.

Here is one of the peonies we brought from the Lost Garden, along with the sweet violets that couldn't bear to be parted, and came along with them. It sends its rosy, succulent stalks through last year's dried leaves, and I hope that this year they will begin to regain some of the beauty and vitality that they had before we moved them.




The Lenten Roses continue to bloom, and another small purple Hellebore is just making itself known.

This evening we had a visit from a flock of sleek Redwing Blackbirds, who had discovered a newly filled feeder.

The Starlings occasionally turn the meadow into a shiny black carpet, - and here they are, startled starlings in flight...


In the house Husband's prunings from the Flowering Almond and the Forsythia promise a pretty sight outside - soon

I gaze across the valley and see the lovely puffs of golden willow, the red of the maples and the faint green aura that surrounds the poplars as they all prepare to burst into those magnificently tender green welcoming costumes that should lure spring along the creeks and through the meadows and right up to our back doors....

I have a great longing for a picture taking drive down south, along the river, and around by Ginty's Pond to see what is happening there. Perhaps the turtles will be out sunning themselves - other fans of Ginty's Pond tell me about them, but I have yet to see them.....life continues to hold such unseen pleasures.

Easter Monday - early in the morning and Husband is eager for the day to start. The sun shines, as we breakfast, and a couple of thrashers flutter around the outside of the deck, issuing invitations to come and see.......

I put on the laundry, and then follow him outside (Husband, - not the Thrasher...). I find him looking seriously at the cottonwood that sprang up in the middle of the perennial garden, overnight growing to about three feet so that it was impossible to get in amongst the jungle flowers to move it last Fall.

Now, however, I have moved all the tulip bulbs within a radius of two feet of the tree, and carefully replanted them. Husband has used the pick-axe and the shovel to make a little moat above the roots. On Easter Saturday we dug the new hole for the cottonwood, over by the fence where it would grow big and tall and cast welcome shade into the back yard. This sounds like such a casual action, - airily - we 'dug a new hole' to accommodate this errant tree, - believe me, it is a casual occurrence when you are 23, or 43, or even 63. It's a major operation when you are 83 - albeit a pleasant one if the company is beloved and you can be leisurely about the way you do it. No flinging dirt back over your shoulder, in wild abandon, as the hole grows deeper and deeper...

The fence is located along the back pasture, where once a glacier dumped mega tons of rock as it retreated northwards. They call it Similkameen chip loam now, but where we were digging it was mostly chips and large stones, - I couldn't believe that the treasured loam we piled so carefully to one side had ever had room to squeeze itself in amongst the rocks.

Husband pried and shoveled, and I got down on my knees and brought the rocks to the surface, - at the end of the morning we had a lovely hole. When we told Son #3 about this venture he had the temerity to ask which one of us we were digging the hole for, so great is our antiquity....

In response to his saucy question we went and 'borrowed' some fine, rich black soil from his compost heap and on Easter Monday we were all set to complete the operation.

It required a great deal of pick and shovel work to loosen the roots of the Cottonwood, - a great deal of instruction as to 'lean on it this way, Honey (through gritted teeth) or pull on it as hard as you can that way'. I was amazed at Husband's persistence and calmness - we worked in air that was only very faintly blue. Because he suffers from post polio syndrome his balance is very precarious, and he has developed a fine patience (not always evident) in times of physical stress.

The cottonwood fit beautifully into the hole, - we lavished it with son's fine soil, watered it well, and came in for lunch, proud of the morning's work and with a great deal of satisfaction and thankfulness that we are able to accomplish this task of moving and planting a tree. It has been such a big part of our lives, - planting trees.

I was able to move two little Spirea bushes into the hole left by the Cottonwood, - tiny ones that I thought would be great fountain heads of Bridal Wreath and so planted them at the back of the bed, along the fence. They turned out to be delicate little shrubs, barely a foot high, lost in the sunflower jungle into which last year's garden evolved. Now they are preparing to bloom front and centre stage, and their thank you was quite audible......

Look at the stars! look, look up at the skies!

O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air!

the bright boroughs, the circle-citadels there

Gerard Manley Hopkins


I cannot truly say what it is that makes Wales, and the Welsh, so appealing to me. Is it the countryside, as I imagine it. Much like our own but wilder and with more craggy mountains and hills. Or is it the language with its lilt and strange cadences? Or the music, - so magnificent and stirring, sung by those marvelous Welsh voices.

Or is it the Romance of Dragons and Merlin and ancient tales of love and heroism. Before I ever knew of Myfanwy and her reluctance to be satisfied I had a friend when I was in Grade One also named Myfanwy.

Her name appealed to me on two levels, - the Romantic and the Practical. As a name Myfanwy was equally as unusual as Hildred, and so it was not just me who stood out amongst all the Annies and the Alices and the Joans and Noras.

Some of my evenings I spend visiting various blogs that appeal to me because of their creative and descriptive writing. "The Welsh Hills Again" is one of my favourites. Its meaningful writing carries me away into a different world, one with a culture so ancient compared to the valley in which we live, where we are only two or three generations away from the first white pioneers. And I am impressed by the expression of "awareness"....not only of surroundings, but of life itself.

In the last few weeks I have had a selection of poems and prose of Gerard Manley Hopkins sitting on my desk, and I marvel at the awareness and the sensuous expression of his way of seeing.

Although he was not Welsh, he did spend time in North Wales when he was reading Theology, and he used his knowledge of classical Welsh poetry to "good account", both in his poetry and his prose.

His description of a spring sky...."but such a lovely damasking in the sky as today I never felt before. The blue was charged with simple instress, the higher, zenith sky earnest and frowning, lower more light and sweet. High up again, breathing through woolly coats of cloud or on the quains and branches of the flying pieces it was the true exchange of crimson, nearer the earth/ against the sun/ it was turquoise, and in the opposite south-western bay below the sun it was like clear oil but just as full of colour, shaken over with slanted flashing 'travellers', all in flight, stepping one behind the other, their edges tossed with bright ravelling, as if white napkins were thrown up in the sun but not quite at the same moment so that they were all in a scale down the air falling one after the other to the ground"...

And his poem "For Pied Beauty"......

Glory be to God for dappled things --

For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;

Landscape plotted & pieced -- fold, fallow, & plough;

And áll trades, their gear & tackle & trim.

All things counter, original, spáre, strange;

Whatever is fickle, frecklèd, (who knows how?)

With swíft, slów; sweet, sóur; adázzle, dím;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is pást change:

Práise hím.

What eyes to see, - and what generosity to share the beauty....his writings feed my soul........

"on left, brow of the near hill glistening with very bright newly turned sods and a scarf of vivid green slanting away beyond the skyline..."

and on and on, - one brilliantly satisfying sentence after another.

The Return of the Meadowlark

As reported by Youngest Daughter, who lives down the lane, across the road and on the bank overlooking a riverside ranch whose meadows accommodate the first larks to come calling in these parts each spring.

Arrival date was the same as last year, - good scheduling.....

Husband and I worked all morning in the garden, listening carefully for the meadowlark's distinctive call, but all we heard were robins chirping, red wing blackbirds trilling, and the occasional quail complaining about the loss of their suite in the Pruning Block Apartments.

Firing of the prunings was an immediate concern, before it became a nesting spot for the quail, and luckily the countryside has abundant cover for little ones to grow up in.

On the farm the meadowlarks arrived with the first Yellow Bells and Buttercups, but here, closer to town, they are not as "at home" as they were on the benchlands and amongst the sage brush.

It was always exciting to be the one who heard the first meadowlark, and to be able to announce the arrival of Spring for Sure.

It was not reported whether the birds wore something green to honour the day.....

Little Gnomes, tiny Elves, the odd Troll here and there, - all Gone Wrong and banished from their former abodes. Some of the Shoemakers' Elves, good of heart and kind of spirit...A few of the House Elves
A bevy of woodland tailor elves

Some Gnomes from the Salt Mines


All heard the rumours, - big bucks at Bill Gates enterprises. All abandoned their good deeds, - their noses grew long and their ears grew pointed, and their eyes shone with with a lavicious light as they contemplated the forty or fifty pieces of silver (THIN DIMES)that they would be paid for taking on the job of MALICIOUS LITTLE MEN IN COMPUTERS WHOSE AIM IN LIFE IS TO CONFUSE AND BEWILDER LITTLE OLD LADIES AND THEIR ILK AS THEY BRAVE THE ONLINE WORLD .
They applied for their Work Permits and prepared for a life of devilment.

Of course the reason they are paid in thin dimes is because there is little room for them to manoever in the average crowded tower, or the new skinny monitors. However, they felt the Vista would make up for the crowded living conditions.....

I have this all on good authority. I have suspected my computer to be infected with little mischievous men for some time, and today it was proven to me!

In attempting to install a new Nero program I had first to uninstall the old one. No sweat, I thought. I began to uninstall in the late afternoon. I tried once, I tried twice, and then I tried again and yet again, growing increasingly more frustrated . I wrote to Nero Tech (no answer as of this time) - contacted Grandson Guru, - but still no joy. The dis-installation would stall in the same place every time. I went away in disgust, leaving the program unresponsive to my efforts.

When I came back the task was finished!!!

I considered it good luck and went about preparing the new disc for installation.

Read the instructions, started the installation, and two thirds through validation of the installation the program stalled, - the little green line rolled and flashed, but would not move even a smidgin.

Again and again I tried. Took time out to play cards, (cranky by that time) and then tried once more before going to bed.

First thing in the morning found me full of hope that the computer would have had a good rest and would be eager to cooperate.

No way!

I tried before breakfast to install that lousy program, - I tried after breakfast. I tried again after Husband went singing, and once more before the dog and I went out for our Constitutional. In utter despair I removed the disc from the tower, put it in the Jewel Case and tucked that and the instructions back in the box they came in, - reached up and put them up on the top shelf to stew in their own juices.....

Then I used Task Manager to close the installation, and off we went, dog and I.

I went to collect e-mail when we got back, and lo! On my computer screen was a printed message, asking me, sweetly, to check the components I wanted. Which I did, - the screen closed, - the Icon popped up on my desktop, and the program was installed. Perfectly.

Now you tell me, - if it wasn't those naughty little employees of Bill Gates, who was it who installed that program???

I had suspected a weak and wimpy Windows Explorer, but now I think that during the time I was stewing and fussing and fretting those dreadful little creatures were stealing the information from the installation, hoarding it away (as they once hoarded the gold at the end of the rainbow) and when they saw their chance they quickly threw it into the works and then sat down and roared with laughter at my astonishment when the program was finally mine, all mine. (my sister doubts this part of the story, - but if you believe the little Elves and Gnomes and the occasional Troll theory you should believe anything.....)

If you have another explanation I would be glad to hear it....

"How soft and fresh he breathes!

Look! He is dreaming! Visions sure of joy
Are gladdening his rest; and, ah! who knows
But waiting angels do converse in sleep
With babes like this!"

Bishop Coxe (1818-1896)

Welcome to a darling new great grandson


And to Katie and Will.....our dearest love

""In the sheltered simplicity of the first days after a baby is born, one sees again the magical closed circle, the miraculous sense of two people existing only for each other.""

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Another chershed family - another hope for the future.

Mid-morning, mid-lent, and I hurry off to take part in a discussion of the Book of Mark, and his telling of the trial and crucifiction of Christ, the Lord.

As usual my thoughts are not confined only to the telling, but as the discussion encompasses the possibilities of Free Will being constrained by Pre-Destination, and as we consider the human side of Christ's suffering, (in particular as it relates to the suffering of humanity) there steals into my mind the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins. And I am reminded also of the beauty and alliteration in the lines of Dylan Thomas that so resemble Hopkin's masterful and musical use of language.

We talked about Eden, before the Tree of Knowledge opened the possibility of choices and free will, (was Peter's denial of Christ predestined, or had he a choice?). We talked about experience and the loss of innocence.... and I thought about Fern Hill.

How it mirrors the story of Eden, - the idyllic period before the Tree of Knowledge "when I was young and green" until the fall from grace.

And mankind (well, womenkind too) must now take responsibility for the choices they make, and are driven as well by "the force that through the green fuse drives" all life from the carefree days of childhood to the inevitable "crooked worm".

As well as comparing the suffering of Christ to the suffering of humanity I was reminded of the Hopkin's poem about the Windhover, dedicated to Christ Our Lord and how he compares the beauty of the Windhover in flight (in that captivating beautiful phraseology) as being a billion times less lovely than the fire that breaks from the Spirit and Word of Christ.

Since we left the Garden we can achieve beauty through sheer plodding and faithfulness, but the "gash gold-vermilion" that flows from the wound in Christ's side makes any beauty and greatness we achieve infinitesimal beside the self sacrifice of the crucification.

What a beautifully descriptive poem this is, packed with verbs and adjectives, and in the mind's eye, watch, watch how the Windhover expresses its joy in flight.

The Windhover:
To Christ Our Lord

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird -- the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

I have a recording of Gerard Manley Hopkin's poems, read by Cyril Cusack and I am going to play it once more at the very first opportunity.......with my eyes closed.

The Windhover - read on YouTube

I trudge the wheelbarrow down the garden path, peering over the pile of dried stalks, ubiquitous cutch grass and various invasive roots that travel the underground garden subway. I calculate the height of the pile to reach the proverbial elephant's eye, - at least...... and a large elephant at that... I like that word "ubiquitious" as it pertains to cutch grass, - the SOUND of it seems so relevant to its sly and pushy ways. Ubiquitous, ubiquitous, I mutter, as I prepare to do battle.

These underground travelers I speak of have set up way stations where from they make an ascent to the daylight and the sunshine. For some reason the Yarrow seems to have business wherever the Iris have established themselves, and send emissaries. I look with dismay at the leafy spikes that are pushing their way up through the corms.

The glowing orange lanterns of the Physalis brighten an autumn day, but they too are rampant in their travel habits, and I swear that given time they could turn up half a mile away, - laying their own tracks three feet below as they go!


They must cultivate the Wild Buttercup as traveling companions. They arrived in the New Garden with the Japanese Peony, and before that they journeyed from #2 Son's Penticton garden. In my zeal to dig up the Buttercups I forgot about the Peony, and had to quickly replant their roots with the long ghostly shoots that had been reaching for the sun.



I search in vain for the first Violet, - in the Lost Garden they would be opening their tightly clustered buds under the old apricot tree, amid the lawn and the little apricot seedlings. The Hellebores are the only flowers in bloom, here in the new garden, but I note the golden promise along the branches of the Forsythia, and the shiny stubs of spring bulbs.



It is a soft and tender day, - I am wondering if I can seduce Husband into going for a drive to see what is happening at Ginty's Pond........

I have been browsing tonight, - cropping the clover in other people's pastures.....and what an intriguing experience it's been.

The awe and the wonder of being able to do this never completely leaves me....

I get lost in the blogs of young Welsh women, and am transported to the countryside of Thomas Firbank and the mountain passes of his early sheep farm. I am taken back in memory to the days of being a young mother, living in the country. And I am beguiled by the changing mores, and yet reminded that in most cases "the more things change the more they remain the same". It is so easy to relate....

I move on to an hilarious blog entitled Pigs in the Kitchen .

The humour makes me smile, - the writing makes me green with envy... A Machiavellian sense of creativity that raises eyebrows and inspires a chuckle or two. Wonderful recipes tagged on at the end, as well, for those of you who are still eating heartily and not trying to lose the stray ten pounds that has attached itself to one's waistline. (as well as other places)

The trail of blogs leads me on and on, - learning new things, absorbing new attitudes, inspired by new ideas, new writings, lists of books, - and being thoroughly entertained.

Time now for the evening stroll with the little dog, - the day has been cloudy, but mild and I expect our little trot down the road will find the evening the same. I will sniff the air for Spring.......ever hopeful.

Being somewhat in a state of flux, and finding it difficult to articulate my feelings, my desires and the direction I mean to take, here instead are a few pictures of the valley as it advances (slowly) into Spring.
The neighbour's soft fruit trees, as the sap rises and the sun clears the eastern hills, enveloping the little orchard in a rosy haze.
And simultaneously K mountain is touched by the same light of the rising sun.
A little earlier, as Caspar and I took our morning stroll, we captured the gnarled apple trees against a bank of colourful clouds.
A mid afternoon shot of the sun, shining through a cloud and catching a ridge across the Valley.

And in the house, the forsythia twigs have burst forth in golden bloom....fair promise...as are the bulbs poking up their shiny little leaves amongst the old dried stalks from last fall.
The creek, in early spring, still cosseted by the faded grasses of autumn. Life holds great promise.....

A rare and fine luxury today......

I was the one who got to sit in the car and read whilst in the City. Husband had an appointment with the Optometrist, (I always think its a little pretentious to say "with HIS optometrist) - and so he parked me in the alley behind the optometrist's office, I opened the car window to let in the sweet almost-spring air, and I settled myself for a longish period of relaxation.

Yesterday, in the Bargain Centre, Heather and I scanned the shelves for books that would be suitable for the library corner we are creating at the Church, complete with lamps, easy chairs and small tables. I brought home a boxful of books, and on my way out this morning I dipped my hand in and picked up one from the top layer.

What a great choice it was - the Rev'd Barbara Cawthorne Crafton's "The Sewing Room".

Published in 1993, but still a book of essays full of abiding truths, - insightfulness expressed with humour and "plainspoken eloquence". Barbara Crafton is an Episcopal Priest who, at the time of publication, was on the staff of Seamen's Church Institute in New York.

I was so absorbed and entertained an hour went by and it seemed like ten minutes. Husband reappeared with tales of his adventures in the Optometrist's domain, and we carried on with our errands. I reluctantly slipped the book back into my bag, but tonight I have been googling and as usual amazed and delighted with what I have found.

A myriad of books by the same author, and a great, long list of essays, articles, bloggy publications and sermons to be found at her website, The Geranium Farm.

As well a series of Audio eMos, meditations read by the Rev'd Buddy Stallings.

Just a Treasure Chest.......how can one refrain from dipping into it and gathering up the jewels it contains.

On the way home from Penticton I kept my eyes peeled for pussy willows at the bottom of Roadhouse hill, but alas, February has remained too cold for them to put their little noses out.

In the meantime, the last and longest of the amaryllis is blooming in the big bathroom, along with the summer geraniums that will soon need to be propagated.

Prayers which it behooves the Aging to earnestly consider.....

LORD, Thou knowest better than I know myself that I am growing older and will some day be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion. Release me from craving to straighten out everybody's affairs. Make me thoughtful but not moody; helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all, but Thou knowest Lord, that I want a few friends at the end......

Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a Saint - some of them are so hard to live with - but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places, and talents in unexpected people. And, give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so. Amen

Oh, it is a continual struggle - my sister tells me it is the result of being a first born...

And another prayer, which I carry with me, but to which I have not been mindful lately...

Heavenly Father, accept this prayer we offer in Christ's name. Forgive us, we ask, for our lack of joy as we insist on taking things too seriously - we waste the few days of this life in disappointment and conflict. For the coldness in our manner and eyes when we have so much to be thankful for, help us to smile again. Let us not miss the simple pleasures of this life that make us laugh and give reason to praise your creation. With a seriousness of purpose and a spirit of fellowship in our hearts, restore our lives, forgiving any contageous gloom we may have inflicted on others. Amen.

These thoughts haunt my morning hours today, the anniversary of the birth of our truly sainted mother who accepted all of life with a courageous and loving spirit, and spread tenderness and inspiration amongst all who knew her. Generous with giving of herself and never missing "the simple pleasures of this life that make us laugh and give reason to praise our creation" .
Remembered with love and gratitude -Dorothy Emily Grace - one with the angels.

This morning's sunrise - much to hold in awe and be thankful for...

Caspar and I are preparing for our mid-morning walk. He leaves his swank green turtle neck tucked into the closet, and I abandon my boots, my scarf, and the red stretchy gloves, in anticipation of the mild weather.

I open the door, and Caspar steps bravely out on the deck, but then hesitates at the top of the stairs. His blindness causes him to take a "leap of faith" every time we go out that way (sometimes we use Husband's lift at the back door). I speak to him encouragingly, and pat his little bum, and down he goes, skimming the steps until he lands in the driveway.

We sniff the air, - despite the dreary skies there is just a small, tantalizing whiff of spring.

Down at the bottom of the orchard the "giraffe" that carries the pruners aloft makes spring-like noises, and the ground is covered with fallen branches. We investigate the branches for signs of buds, but we avert our eyes from the trees. When Master Pruner drives down the road he cannot bear to look at the newly "pruned" trees as the current mode of shaping the trees, opening them up to the sunlight and encouraging the new crop is beyond his ken and offends his sensibilities.The small birds are back. February is full of false promises and frail fulfillment, but the heart of the little bird is brave, and willing to take another chance on warmer weather. Caspar is slightly deaf, as well as being blind, and I doubt that he hears the cheerful twittering of the birds, - none the less he trots jauntily down the road with his tail in the air, headed for the corner of the fence where the dogs from the big house come to meet him and rub noses.

On the way back we detour into the pasture and go to inspect the small trees we planted here two years ago. The buds on the Sunset Maples are beginning to swell, and I go on to the Russian Olive and scratch a bit of outer bark off, - delighted to find it green underneath. A happy indication that it may be recovering from the malady that dried up all its leaves mid-summer last year.

We circle the little pussy willow tree, where the fat white velvety buds are just beginning to develop.
Alas, the little Star Magnolia seems scarcely to have grown in the last two years since we replanted it from the Lost Garden. It is wan, and pale and looks like a little stick man - but the rest of the small trees flourish. I find the cutting shears to snip away at the forsythia and bring a few twigs and branches into the house. We search in vain for a violet or two, - only the Lenten Rose flourishes in the garden now.

Tonight when Caspar and I skittered down the steps again a small sifting of snow lay over the road, though the stars shone and there were gauzy clouds against a navy sky. Fickle, fickle February......

The signs of Spring are still pretty sparse on the ground, - and not too plentiful in the trees either.

But I remain optimistic, and in spare moments I study the hills with my small spy glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of errant Spring. If we were still on the farm I could walk a few yards up the hill and search for buttercups and yellow bells - well, if we were still on the farm I would have small (and sometimes large) children to bring them home in moist and loving hands.

Be that as it may, if we were still on the farm the big barn would be full of new spring lambs and their mothers. Those who were old enough to be out in the barnyard would be bounding, gamboling and springing up and around the yard whilst ma had her dinner.




There might be a calf in the small barn, occasionally a filly or a colt, and when spring was far enough advanced the meadowlarks would call an invitation to come and join them outdoors.

When I, a city girl, became acquainted with farm animals, I mistook this invitation to also include Daisy the new milk cow. She had been in the barn all winter. The spring breezes wafted, the sun shone gently and a few wisps of cloud floated aloft. A perfect day for Daisy to make her debut on the sage brush hills. We had a lovely stroll together, until she got too friendly and stepped on my foot..... Remember, I was a city girl, young and foolish but full of concern, - and it wasn't too long until I was much more intimate with Daisy, via the milk pail and my vigorous administrations to her teets.

While Caspar and I ambled down the road tonight we saw the ranchers' lights down by the river, checking the fields for new born calves. And in the distance we heard the hungry howl of the coyote pack.

Here and now on the pasture the snow is patchy and the green of the grass is promising. A few more sunny days and winter's coverlet should be gone. The small birds who frolicked amongst the trees a couple of weeks ago will come back from where they retreated when the cold weather came again.

And I will be in seventh heaven with the shears and the wheelbarrow, making way for next year's growth in the perennial garden.

Callie the cat will be ecstatic too, - she is definitely a garden cat who prowls the little pathways and hides in cool and fragrant spots.

When I was researching my father's family I came upon Great Aunt Mary Anne who was born on April 17th, 1823, and married Thomas Johnson on September 5th, 1845. It is said of Mary Anne that the countryside knew that spring had truly arrived when she painted her door a flaming yellow, and started housecleaning. According to the information I received her husband, Thomas, was an outside man, and the comment was made that he cultivated the outdoors for his own peace of mind during housecleaning time. Delightful to come upon such tidbits that make ancestors truly living, breathing people with all the foibles that still beset us.
Yellow doors, yellow daffodils, a branch of golden forsythia and a buttercup or two, - all sing the season.

Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart by Gordon Livingston, M.D.



Before I take Gordon Livingston, M.D. and his book, "Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart" back to the library I want to once again re-read his chapter on memory, and the legitimacy of the memories we retrieve.

As a matter of fact, this is a book I would be happy to re-read many times, and to share with any number of people. I am leaning towards Indigo........

The insights which he writes about in this book are presented with sensitivity and kindness, but even more with an abundance of common sense.

The flyleaf states"full of things we may know but have not articulated to ourselves, Too Soon Old, Too Late Smart, is a gentle and generous alternative to the trial-and-error learning that makes wisdom such an expensive commodity. For everyone who feels a sense of urgency that the clock ticks, and we still aren't the person we'd like to be, it offers solace, guidance, and hope."

Every chapter in this book caught my attention, but as I seem to have reached a point in life where memories bring great comfort I was especially intrigued by the title of this chapter. "The Only Paradises are Those we have Lost"

Is this true? Do we consistently lie to ourselves about the past? Livingston starts the chapter by pointing out that our conviction that things were better when we were young is not really valid. I have suspected this for some time, - that actual events were not better, - but I have always thought that the way we coped with these events and conditions showed a little more moral stamina than that found today. Am I wrong? (sigh - I wouldn't be surprised....)

Livingston explains that "what happens as we try to come to terms with our pasts is that we see our lives as a process of continual disenchantment. We long for the security provided by the comforting illusions of our youth. We remember the breathless infatuation of first love; we regret the complications imposed by our mistakes, the compromises of our integrity, the roads not taken.......our yearning for the past is fueled by a selective memory of our younger selves."

Well, after some profound thinking I agree with that to a certain extent. Surely our memory is selective. But the mystery is, what causes me to remember sitting on the sidewalk with Jim and Barry Cooper discussing the merits of apples, oranges and bananas when I was about four years old, and yet not being able to remember how the furniture in my childhood bedroom was arranged. I will watch carefully to see if the modern day scientist discovers which portion of the brain lights up over these trivial memories.

And, in addition, I question the conclusion that postulates "when the past takes on the illusion of satisfaction, excitement and romance, it must necessarily make us disenchanted with the present". Different people view the past in different lights, depending upon where they lie on the "positive-negative" scale, and if you are lucky enough to be an optimist, than the present is indeed just an extension of the happy past.......

A little more thought may cause me to change my mind, but at the present this is what I'm thinking.

I do recommend this book to all who are still searching......

Once upon a time....

Husband and I had a fairly large library, accumulated over sixty years of marriage.

When we moved from the farm into town the Handy Man had installed a wall of shelves at the bottom of the stairs, and these expanded into book cases in the weaving studio, and the spare bedroom, and our own bedroom, - under coffee tables and in little stacks in various corners!!

When we moved again, from the big house in town to this nice retirement home on the back pasture, we not only left the Lost Garden, but also found we would never again have room for such a large collection of books. We sorted through them, keeping those which we couldn't bear to part with. The rest we put on shelves which we opened to family and friends, As long as they went out of the house without us seeing them, we were content. What was left we donated to the Bargain Centre, and probably some of them are still on the shelves there, awaiting the discerning reader.

Once more this week I sorted again, looking for books which would be appropriate for a Church Library. What a fine morning I spent at this task, - dipping into books that have been sitting on the bedside shelves, some untouched since we moved into this house; putting aside those that demanded to be re-read and handling with care those that have been opened and read intermittently over the last sixty some years.

The books of Teilhard de Chardin have sat unopened for some years, and I wondered as I fingered them what light Teilhard de Chardin would shed on the present day battle between the Materialists and the Spiritualists.

Alas, I found de Chardin to be labelled a dreamer, whose visions are viewed as impossible by the majority of modern researchers, and by some even derided as foolish. Stephen Jay Gould, before his premature death, appears to have struck the mortal blow which has branded de Charin as naive and outdated.

His dream of a reunion between materialism and religion lie in tatters, with perhaps only his vision of the "noosphere" claiming any legitimacy in the vast network of communication that covers the globe. Radio for the masses had only been available for some thirty years, and TV was in its infancy when Teilhard de Chardin died in 1955. The world wide web was not to be developed for another thirty-five years. And yet de Chardin had this vision of a world wide communication system providing ideas and inspiration, and in the end the remarriage of the material world with the spiritual. Perhaps he was naive, but I will still re-read the coffee ringed book by Bernard Delfgaauw entitled "Evolution - The Theory of Teilhard de Chardin" that I first underlined in the years when I was deeply enthused about philosophy.

Amongst the other books that I set aside to revisit are the following:

Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, - a favourite which has guided me over the years.

Language and the pursuit of Truth by John Wilson - a wonderful book for anyone who loves words.

The River - by Rumer Godden, about whom the New York Times says "She uses the English language with the precise artistry of a miniature painter working on ivory, but always with such a sure touch, such firm restraint, that her prose never becomes artificial or precious". And I do fear at all times that I may fall into the error of being "precious".

Tickets for a Prayer Wheel, by Annie Dillard. "He kissed me when shadows were long on the path to the orchard; he promised to meet me again when the apples were in; now when the wind parts the curtains, now in the city when the cat won't come, I sleep with only one eye shut, keeping a weather eye out.".
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And for fun and entertainment - "A window over the Sink" by Peg Bracken (full of memories) and "The English Gentleman's Wife" by Douglas Sutherland. A comment from the book "A Guernsey Charlady: A lady called when you was out-no, I didn't come to 'er name - but I know she was a lady as she was covered in joolery and smelt of sherry".

And for sentiment "Those who Love " - love poems by Sara Teasdale.

When will I get any knitting done?????

BTW - the Groundhog did not see his shadow here in the Similkameen today. Call me a gol darned optimist, but I do expect to see Spring lingering in the folds of the hills, spying out the land, - all about next week!

The flowers of January, and other matters.....

Groundhog Day grows closer, and although the flowers of January brighten our lives it is inevitable that they will soon fade and we will have to rely on that little furry varmint to predict when we will see the bulbs of spring herald the "yellow" season in the garden.



In the meantime we count our blessings here in the Similkameen that this particular part of Canada is not being visited by "wacky" wicked winter weather. The days are calm and still, - we have the occasional flurry of snow but the chill is invigorating and pleasant. Husband recalls his days on Guard Duty at the Manning Depot in Edmonton during the winter of 1942/43, when the temperature dropped to 60 below zero and the wide Edmonton streets resembled snow tunnels that made way for traffic and street cars (remember street cars?). It was winter, - just winter on the prairies - nothing "wacky" about it. And the spring that followed was as sweet as ever.....

This morning I have enjoyed watching the quail, as they come from their perches in the big burn pile, up the fence and into the orchard. I noted particularly the guard who perches on a fence post and watches carefully for danger to the flock, -sounding the alarm when hawks or cats or other creatures who would make prey of those lovely fat quail make an appearance. The quail are on the qui vie and respond immediately to the call for action, scattering into elusive feathery targets, moving every which way.

Would that our somnolent society had not lost the awareness of danger and the need for watchfulness......... There are still people who remind us of the need to be vigilant, but we are so comfortable in our fat-cat existence that we could be gone in a "pouf" , never knowing what hit us. When we share our greatest fear with Chicken Little" that the sky is falling, how vulnerable that leaves us to the real danger of fanatical terrorism.

We are so complacent, so self-satisfied, and as Lorne Gunter says in his article in the National Post(Jan. 28th, 2008) tolerant to the point of suicide.